Today might not be what it is
without yesterday being all
that it was.
In a succession of events,
unplanned or programmed,
rarely do we consider
what has happened,
as it happens.
Sometimes we speak less
about things that matter
as we think we have
more time, as such.
Oftentimes
we do not speak of
things we should
as they are happening,
in the time that remains.
In the time we are given,
the present persists.
10/15/2024 j.g.l.
Pick up what’s left of the shadow that has been trailing you for a week or three, the one you have noticed even when the sun hasn’t been shining as it should.
Of course there have been distractions (there always is), even as your nerves are beginning to fray, and all those anxieties still follow you, surprisingly so, on any old day.
Intermittent rain washes away hopes and plans dreamed on and diminished now. Still, you have the time and, more importantly, you have the mind to make it all happen. You’ve got something more important to say.
10/14/2023 j.g.l.
Poetry is power, and poetry is
a weakness, as much cowardice
as courage. A delightful
contradiction, it sucks at your
soul, and, like a fussy infant,
cannot wait to be fed. More.
Not to be silenced until sated.
Nourished then,
it so slips into gentle slumber,
life’s rhythm allowing dreams and
sweet solace, only to wake soiled
and screaming. Comfort comes
with a soothing voice, gentle touch,
and reassurance. Flesh and blood,
innocent for only a while, it grows
alongside you, until it stands
on its own.
Poetry.
You give it life, then it to you.
© 2016 j.g. lewis
I'm like a pencil;
sometimes sharp,
most days
well-rounded,
other times
dull or
occasionally
broken.
Still I write.
j.g. lewis
is a writer/photographer in Toronto.
Over the past couple of months, just before summer blessed us with its presence, I’ve been painting, or sketching; illustrating where I am, or have been.
I’ve been doing it because I can — more in terms of the time I have, rather than the talent — pretty much daily. It is what I need to do…I feel, or I think.
So I do.
I have been painting every summer since the pandemic set in. Didn’t we all seem to have a little extra time when our worlds seem to shut down, and we became more socially isolated?
August 2020 marks the beginning of what I call my practice of ‘non-judgemental art’. Every couple of days, through the entire month, I’d climb on my bike and ride to the lakeshore where I painted what is now an overly familiar scene. I found it interesting how the same tree, nearby lake and distant island could appear so different each time I returned. Influenced by the sunshine, clouds, and even one day rain, I began to observe differently than I have in the past.
The next summer I took up oil painting (again). It had been years since I messed around with linseed oil, and more permanent pigment than the watercolours or acrylics I have dabbled in over the years. I took oil painting lessons once, maybe as a teenager, but found the medium took a lot more patience than I had at the time. It was messy.
Then, I was not old enough to appreciate the studied application of oil on canvas, so I stepped away thinking it would be something I would pick up when I was an adult, or I was older.
I guess, a few years back I realized I was now older (still not “mature”).
With all that’s’ been happening, and as I’m slowly preparing to move away from Toronto, and as all my art supplies have been packed away, I still felt the need to paint. It is, after all, summer.
So, I bought a set of watercolours and an assortment of papers, then some crayons, and pastels: simple stuff, I thought, that would summon both my enthusiasm and ever-present desire to create. Since then, the pages of my journal have been more filled with “art” as opposed to poetry and the rants and ramblings that come with writing every damn day.
The paint, in many ways, is satisfying a certain desire.
I try not to overthink it; which is what I pretty much do with anything: think. I over think. I experiment with styles and mediums (on a more recent trip to an art supply store I purchased India Ink with a pen and nib) and began to let the moments take me where I feel I need to go.
It is silently satisfying, even meditative. It is, at its core, self-care (or self-love), and self-discovery; at least nurturing a restless soul.
It is nothing like what I imagined: it is more.
I am reminded, again ,of a realization I came to almost a decade ago: Art is not the result, it’s the reason.
For me, art is not about chasing perfection or meeting expectations. Art is more about spending time with your self. That’s important. It matters.
Art matters.
© 2024 j.g. lewis
I’m like a pencil;
sometimes sharp,
most days
well-rounded,
other times
dull or
occasionally
broken.
Still I write.
j.g. lewis
is a writer/photographer in Toronto.